


A Descriptive Study on Angel Kisses by Anthony J. Crowley

by smudgesofink



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Morning Kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, afternoon kisses, all the kisses, really just an excuse to write Aziraphale and Crowley making out a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 15:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20623583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink
Summary: In these silent moments, in these frozen in-betweens and pockets of borrowed time, when Aziraphale kisses him solemn and wonderful, he tastes like a prayer.





	A Descriptive Study on Angel Kisses by Anthony J. Crowley

In the mornings, Aziraphale kisses him sleep-soft and gentle. 

It always stirs Crowley into consciousness, this lovely wake-up call in the form of lips brushing against his cheek, fingertips sweeping adoringly over the arch of his brow. 

“Good morning, dearheart,” Aziraphale whispers with a growing smile and a twinkle in his eye, ever brighter than sunlight, and it makes Crowley blink away from the embrace of slumber. The bed is still warm, the sheets still inviting in their softness but Aziraphale remains to be the greatest temptation, coaxing Crowley out of the comforts of their bed and into shuffling languidly to their kitchen where breakfast awaits.

Over breakfast, kisses exchanged taste like coffee and French toast. 

They get ready, and then they part ways, Crowley off to deal with some very evil, very demonic business and Aziraphale to bustle inside his shop and pretend like he’s not subtly driving out every customer. 

...Well.

That is to say, they part ways after Crowley has had his fix of Aziraphale and Aziraphale has been satisfied with the amount of fussing over Crowley he’s done, all ‘take care’s and ‘drive safe’s and the kisses in between their farewells, all of it sweet and long and unwilling to end. 

“Do be careful,” Aziraphale reminds him yet again and Crowley would roll his eyes, he would, but Aziraphale leans in once more--_for the last time,_ Aziraphale swears just like he swore four kisses ago, _this is the last one, dearest, I promise_\--and snogs Crowley proper in that breathtaking way of his, cupping Crowley’s jaw so reverently in his hands with thumbs caressing sharp cheekbones, and rendering Crowley incapable of any eye-rolling as his yellow eyes flutter shut beneath his glasses. Aziraphale kisses Crowley until he goes weak-kneed and snake-tongued.

And then, they part ways. For real, this time.

It’s early in the afternoon when Crowley returns to the bookshop. He comes in to the sight of Aziraphale sitting at his cluttered desk, tea forgotten and gone cold on his right as he flips the page of Dickens’ signed copy of _Oliver Twist_. 

Crowley slithers up to him, as silently as he can to keep the surprise—very demonic deed to do, startling an angel—so when he places a reptile-cold hand on the nape of his angel where cloud-white hair rests, Aziraphale jumps and glances up at him.

“There you are, darling,” Aziraphale greets, preoccupied.

“Here I am,” Crowley says as he takes off his glasses, and bends down for a peck.

Aziraphale kisses distractedly when reading, his mouth unfocused and off-center—and Crowley loves it.

Loves working for and earning it, one distracted kiss at a time, coming back again and again for another stolen peck and pestering Aziraphale like a right menace while he reads. It gets him all sorts of funny noises, too—short irritated huffs and shushes from pursed lips, and Crowley’s grin gets wickeder the more frustrated Aziraphale sounds—

—until finally, Aziraphale has had enough of his dirty ploy and pulls Crowley sudden and smooth to sit on his lap, miracling the chair to fit them both comfortably.

“Angel—“

“Hush,” Aziraphale tuts. “You absolute fiend.”

“Well, I _am _a demon,” Crowley sing-songs in retaliation, grinning sharply at Aziraphale’s grumble—

—and then stills when a kiss lands soothingly on the spot where Crowley’s nose and his eye meet. His grin melts into something gentle, something besotted.

Another placating kiss, on his eyelid this time.

And yet another on his temple, where Aziraphale then places his mouth against Crowley’s forehead and keeps it there indefinitely as he reads on, with one hand cradling the back of Crowley’s head close, the other turning page after page of the book.

Crowley falls into a nap like this, curled up on Aziraphale’s lap like a cat.

When he wakes up, it’s to the quiet vibrations against his skin as Aziraphale hums an old children’s lullaby under his breath in the growing shadows of the evening.

“There you are, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs once more when Crowley lifts his head up to stare at him. Aziraphale isn’t preoccupied any longer now, and there are no more books to distract him. So instead, he meets Crowley’s naked gaze head on, quiet in his wonder, hushed in his smile. Crowley still can’t take it, this undivided blue-eyed gaze of adoration that Aziraphale sends his way. It feels too sun-bright, too cosmic-pure, this tender crack of a smile his angel has for him, this terrible heartache-softness of Aziraphale’s lips as he presses it against Crowley’s in a chaste kiss.

Crowley’s chest tightens, threatens to split apart and bare his monstrous, beating heart for the world to witness, for the world to hear how it calls with desperation a singular angelic name.

In these silent moments, in these frozen in-betweens and pockets of borrowed time, when Aziraphale kisses him solemn and wonderful, he tastes like a prayer. Like salvation offered to the damned, like worship sitting on Crowley’s unworthy tongue.

Like the concept of devotion personified. 

When Aziraphale draws back, he takes Crowley’s breath and lungs and soul with him. Aziraphale isn’t aware of this, of course, but it makes Crowley follow nonetheless, chasing his lips like a starved man after his first taste of sweetness. He surges up to claim Aziraphale’s mouth once, twice, an infinite amount of times, kisses him until Aziraphale left gasping like it’s the first time he’s ever discovered breathing.

Crowley sits up, wounding his arms around Aziraphale’s plush shoulders, needle-bony fingers all tangled up in his delicate curls, and deepens the kiss even more, greedily swallowing up the whine that forces itself out of Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley takes and takes, this ambrosia-tender love, lets it burn him holy from the inside out, and Crowley gives and gives as much as his hellfire heart can offer.

“I love you,” Crowley blurts out when they part, both of them breathless despite not ever needing air. “I—Angel, I love you.”

“Oh, darling, I know,” Aziraphale sighs. He is a masterpiece come to life, with his bruise-red mouth and flushed cheeks. He becomes all the more impossibly beautiful when he closes his eyes, breaking into a smile as Crowley bumps their foreheads together. “I love you just as achingly, Crowley. I love you with all the love I am capable of giving.”

When Aziraphale kisses him once more, always once more, he kisses him like a miracle granted.

**Author's Note:**

> Cry with me about Good Omens on Tumblr at thisvictoriangirl.tumblr.com.


End file.
